The little boys hold their mini hockey sticks like rifles (the ones I bought in a misguided purchase to be the cool out-of-town mom). They crouch at the breakfast bar peeking around the corner and whispering to each other.
"Boys, I told you to pick up your dinner plates and put them in the sink."
They afforded a quick, serious look back, and then continue their whispering. I obviously don't know the importance of this mission.
"ATTACK!" Super Wy yells.
They step out from the breakfast bar wall, aim their rifles and spray the kitchen with imaginary bullets. It's war. There's bloodshed. Holy Terror is wounded and from the looks of his agony while rolling on the ground, it might be mortally. Super Wy continues the battle, moving along the kitchen opening.
Near the far wall he falls, hit by his enemy. It's an ugly death as the rifle flies out of his hand and he sprawls out, wiggling and then staring blank towards the living room.
"Dinosaurs win?" I ask. He nods, still sticking his tongue out (cause that's what dead bodies do). Holy Terror sighs in defeat from his position. "Well, now that you're both dead, why don't you guys pick up your dinner plates."